chai green tea at work and
maybe you can think straight again,
yesterday a reminder that nothing here
is promised, not one day, echoes of terror
(and resistance) caught in a mirrored chamber
amplifying and warping until there is only
the sickening green of new grass on earth
that is trying to forget the ravages of war, is
trying to forget that people would rather
paint artificial turf than let wounds be open
to air no matter how much you don't want them
to recover at all; at least then you can remember
what happened to maybe hope with wounds
on display they will not be forgotten
(you know this is a lie)
maybe you should've taken black tea, at least
then you could've tasted mourning
instead of growth
— April 11, 2017
(line in italics taken from Lin Manuel Miranda's sonnet dedicated to Pulse)
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